


do anything to feel your breath on my neck

by longing-and-heartache-and-lust (the_ressurectionist)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ressurectionist/pseuds/longing-and-heartache-and-lust
Summary: “You need to relax,” the bard says again, softer. “Let me help you with that.”Before Geralt can really say anything, Jaskier is already undoing the hooks of his doublet, tugging it off and switching his attention to the ties on his breeches, never taking his eyes off the witcher.“What thefuckdo you think you’re doing, bard?”“Shut up, Witcher,” with a move of his head Jaskier gestures for Geralt to sit down, eyes still fixed on him, and for some reason, Geralt cannot resist. “Tell me how you like it.”Though the witcher understands, what Jaskier means, he can’t make himself say a single word, desperately trying to figure out why he’s still watching instead of telling the bard tostop fucking undressing.“Tell me how you like to be touched,” Jaskier insists, breath hitching as he slips a hand under his breeches and touches himself. “And imagine that everything I do is being done to you.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 689
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	do anything to feel your breath on my neck

**Author's Note:**

> "This is a dark song, real dark,  
> Feral, tear off your skin to the bone dark,  
> I'll drink myself to death dark,  
> Do anything to feel your breath on my neck dark."
> 
> Nothing But Thieves - "Real Love Song"

Geralt was on edge.

He could feel it, Jaskier could feel it, everyone that as much as laid an eye upon him could feel it.

It has been a hard week.

First, a couple of foglets that showed up out of nowhere when he and the bard were crossing a shallow river, then a contract for a whole fucking nest of nekkers that Geralt hated with a burning passion. While fighting them off, he’d gotten bit and it hurt like hell even though he wouldn’t show it.

The wound was an irritating pain that wouldn't let him sleep properly, his dreams all frantic and messy, and he would wake up more and more wound up every morning.

And on top of that, it was raining every fucking day for hours to no end and they couldn't leave the small town they were staying in because the roads were completely washed-out, unsuitable and unsafe for travelling neither on horseback nor on foot. It was driving Geralt insane.

Always snapping and growling at everyone even on the best of days, now he was _radiating_ anger.

Jaskier seemed to be the only person that wasn't scared of him even in the slightest, and the bard doesn’t even jump when Geralt slams the door of their room on the third floor of a rather nice inn.

“Well don’t you seem joyful as ever,” he comments, watching the witcher from his bed where he’s reading something.

Geralt growls at him loudly – a cold, dangerous sound – and throws his gloves onto his own bed with much more force than needed.

“You need to relax, Geralt,” the bard says, a tightly coiled spring of tiredness in his otherwise soft voice. It's not the first time he says that.

“Stay the fuck out of it, bard.”

Geralt’s shoulders are tense, his every move harsh and irritated as he pulls off his chest plate, fumbling with all the little buckles twice as long as usual.

Jaskier watches him from his place, not making any move to touch or help the witcher, knowing that Geralt won’t allow it. He'd learned his lesson over the last couple of days when Geralt would either snap at him for every touch or just pull his hands away without saying a word but firmly enough to let the bard know that he's not in the mood.

So, Jaskier just watches until finally, he closes his book, puts it on the table set between their beds and lays back, resting his shoulders on the pillow.

“Look at me,” he says, and there’s something to his voice that makes Geralt oblige. 

“ _What?_ ” he snaps, eyes glowing dangerously in the low light of the fireplace.

“You need to relax,” the bard says again, softer. “Let me help you with that.”

Before Geralt can really say anything, Jaskier is already undoing the hooks of his doublet, tugging it off and switching his attention to the ties on his breeches, never taking his eyes off the witcher.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing, bard?”

“Shut up, Witcher,” with a move of his head Jaskier gestures for Geralt to sit down, eyes still fixed on him, and for some reason, Geralt cannot resist. “Tell me how you like it.”

Though the witcher understands, what Jaskier means, he can’t make himself say a single word, desperately trying to figure out why he’s still watching instead of telling the bard to _stop fucking undressing._

“Tell me how you like to be touched,” Jaskier insists, breath hitching as he slips a hand under his breeches and touches himself. “And imagine that everything I do is being done to you.”

" _Jaskier-_ " he growls but the bard seems utterly unimpressed with the warning in that sound.

"If you're not going to let me get you off like a normal fucking person, you're going to watch me do that to myself."

Geralt can feel heat twisting in his lower abdomen, spreading throughout his entire body, bringing sweet weakness with it. His heart skips a beat without him wanting it to and before he really knows it, he thinks that _why the fuck not_.

Suddenly feeling a little lightheaded, he stands up to drag an armchair set by the fireplace closer to the beds. If he’s going to do this, _he wants a view_. 

“Take those off,” he says, calming himself down and settling in comfortably in the armchair. 

Jaskier obeys without question, slowly stripping himself of his breaches and looking at Geralt with a glint in his eyes that the witcher just can’t find the right name for.

Though they've seen each other naked countless times over the years and have undressed each other on more occasions than Geralt would care to count, he still can’t help it but run his gaze over the bard’s entire body, open and bare save for the silver shirt.

“That, too.”

Again, Jaskier listens, tugs his shirt off and throws it to Geralt, all confidence and cheeky smiles.

He’s now completely naked in front of him, and for a few seconds, neither of them say anything, the witcher taking in the sight in front of him and Jaskier enjoying the hunger in his golden eyes. 

Holding Geralt’s gaze though it keeps sending little shivers down his spine, Jaskier reaches down to wrap his long calloused fingers over the length of his half-hard cock, gasping softly at the touch.

“You prefer to be worked over slow or fast?” he asks, never breaking the eye contact and smearing precome over the tip of his cock with his thumb.

After thinking about it for just a few more seconds, Geralt decides that it’s a game with rules that he can follow.

“Slow,” he says, feeling his breath getting heavier. “At first, that is. Just to get me hard.”

Jaskier nods, bites his lip, twisting his wrist as he moves his hand up his cock slowly, just to tease himself. Just to get himself hard.

Geralt does as he's told and imagines that touch on him. Imagines the feeling of the bard's perfectly rough fingers as they move over his cock, following every vein, imagines their heat against him; imagines the way they get sticky with precome which makes it easier to move and spikes the pleasure up even higher. 

“Harder,” Geralt says, digging his nails into the armrests of the chair so that it’s easier to ignore his cock getting heavier in his trousers. “Clench your fingers tighter.”

The way his voice sounds makes heat spill through Jaskier’s lower abdomen, so pleasant that it makes his knees go weak. He obeys, wrapping his fingers tighter around the base of his cock and moving his hand again, just as slow, licking his lips and rolling his hips unconsciously. With his other hand, he ruffles his hair, caresses his neck and chest, leaning into his own touch, always so sensitive and physical in his pleasure.

Geralt knows what it feels like to have the bard lean into _his_ hands like that.

“Keep talking,” Jaskier says, barely suppressing a soft moan. “Or I’ll stop.”

It takes Geralt a few seconds to recollect his thoughts, the tension slowly bleeding away from his shoulders, replaced with a well-known and familiar thrum of desire that makes his whole body go pleasantly weak and sensitive. 

"Spread your knees further," he finally says, slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt, starting with the sleeves. "Move your hips together with your wrist but keep the movements slow."

Jaskier does exactly as he's told. 

He's hard now, precome making it easier for him to move as he smears it over his entire length every time he brushes his thumb over the tip of his cock. His breathing is heavier, louder, the bard's chest rising and falling unevenly. 

Geralt watches his every move, watches the way the emotions on his face change, the way he bites his lip to muffle a soft moan, knowing absolutely no shame. The witcher's hands seem to be moving completely on their own as he only realises that he's done with his shirt when the last button is undone and he can tug it off, having decided that even if it's the weirdest thing he's ever done sex-wise, it's not the weirdest thing he's done in his life in general. 

"You joining me?" Jaskier grins, lips red and glistening with spit. "Or are you just going to get yourself off, watching?"

When he says it, it sounds much hotter than Geralt had realised. 

"And you enjoy being watched, bard?" he asks instead of everything else that is on his mind. 

Jaskier doesn't even blush, just bites his lip seductively and rolls his hips in a way that makes Geralt wish he could just pin him to the bed and take the bard's pleasure into his own hands, controlling every move. 

"By you - certainly," Jaskier grins, his eyes dark and devouring in the low light of the fireplace. 

Over the years they've travelled together, they've had their fair share of experiments. Or, rather, things done in the heat of the moment. 

They were never enough for either of them to actually learn how the other one likes it but they were enough to drown in, for just one night. Hungry, wet kisses that left them both breathless, fingers shaking with anticipation, perfectly hot tongues. 

Though they never went as far as actually fucking, Jaskier never seemed to mind slipping down to his knees for Geralt, his fingers quick and sure and his mouth hot and perfect. Judging by all the sounds he made, he enjoyed having Geralt's cock in his mouth even more than the witcher enjoyed Jaskier's ability to take in his entire length without choking once. 

The bard would allow Geralt to come in his mouth and never miss an opportunity to lock his gaze with the witcher's as he swallowed, wiping at his lips and chin with the back of his hand and grinning in the most satisfied of ways until Geralt would push him onto his back and slide a hand into his breeches, working the bard over in fast, uneven strokes until he would arch his back and come, shaking. 

It wasn't a relationship, it was just a little benefit. 

"Faster," Geralt orders, tossing his shirt onto his bed and letting his hair down. "Edge yourself just a little."

Again, Jaskier obeys, throwing his head back for just a second, moving his hand faster and choking his moans in the back of his throat, his cock flush and throbbing, and even though the witcher has only had it in his mouth a couple of times, he knows exactly how his precome tastes, and that makes his lower abdomen twist with a sharp, sweet spasm of pure lust.

"Still don't know why you won't just let me touch you," Jaskier breathes out, his pupils blown so wide that there is almost no blue left in his eyes. 

Geralt cuts him short. "Quiet, bard."

He doesn't even look at what he's doing as he undoes the buttons on his leather trousers, seemingly unable to take his eyes off Jaskier who is so open and sensitive and obliging for him right now. Geralt tugs his trousers down to his knees together with the underwear, his cock already obscenely hard and practically leaking with precome, which is something that he would've been ashamed of if he cared at least it the slightest.

Once again he imagines Jaskier's fingers on him, sure and agonisingly good, the bard somehow always knowing what it is that Geralt needs. Imagines his mouth, so hot and wet and perfect that it would sometimes send his head reeling in a matter of seconds, Jaskier knowing how to edge him and how to make him come so hard that his knees would go weak. 

If he knew the answer to the bard's question, he would gladly tell it to him and then pin him to the bed or, - something that they both seemed to enjoy even more - to the wall. 

Maybe it was that when he was on edge, he couldn't control himself and all he wanted was to _take-take-take_ until he gets enough, and that wasn't something that fitted into their little games. 

Maybe it was that as time passed, he would find himself wanting more than what they have and had neither the desire nor the energy to deal with it. 

Maybe it was both of those things combined but whatever it was, he didn't want Jaskier to touch him. Or, at least, he didn't up until the moment the bard had moaned his name softly, tongue moving swiftly over his lips.

"If you want me to shut up, you'll have to have to make me," he grins, all sharp teeth. 

Geralt knows that those teeth can leave marks on him that don't heal for days, a possessive little reminder. 

He wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, controlling his breathing carefully.

It's been a couple of weeks now since he's last been touched by someone as there were no brothels on their way to this town and Geralt has never been too big of a fan of picking people up in taverns like Jaskier did. The bard, however, didn't miss out on his opportunities and that took away Geralt's chances to unwind with him. 

He didn't think that if he were to suggest it, Jaskier wouldn't say "no", but then again, every time they've found themselves in each other's arms, it was in the heat of the moment, just a spark of lust that would quickly grow into a fire and devour them both whole only to burn out just as quickly after they both got what they wanted. 

Suggesting to spend the night together would mean admitting that Geralt wanted something more than just moments like that. 

Geralt twist his wrist as he moves his hand up his cock, the touch sending little sparks of pure pleasure up his spine and almost making him moan. 

Jaskier, following his orders, works himself over faster, his breathing now loud and shallow, hips jerking up with no real rhythm. His eyes are closed, brows pinched closer together, and Geralt knows that the bard doesn't need a lot to come. He knows exactly what he looks like, what he _sounds_ like when he's on the edge of an orgasm. Knows the way the scent of his pleasure sharpens, getting richer and spicier until it overwhelms both of them. 

"You cannot come until I allow you," the witcher says before he even thinks about it and he can see the way Jaskier struggles to take in a breath at that. 

"Whatever you say, Witcher," he agrees, slowing down and watching the man carefully. 

Geralt nearly growls at that referring. Jaskier knew perfectly just how much Geralt hated being called that as he found it depersonalizing but that applied to everyone _but_ Jaskier calling him that. When the bard would refer to him as "Witcher", in that voice of his, Geralt would lose his fucking mind. 

He feels exposed and vulnerable under the gaze of the bard's tentative eyes but it already feels too good to stop. Just like always, when lust washes over Geralt's mind and his entire body is just a tightly coiled spring of heat and _want_ , there is no room for questions. 

He moves in the same rhythm as Jaskier, imagining his fingers and lips, letting the control over his breathing slip and, gods, if he wanted to, he could come from this alone but before he can make up his mind, Jaskier moans softly, getting his attention. 

"Tell me, Witcher," he murmurs, reaching his other hand down to wipe the precome off the tip of his cock and lick it off of his fingers, never breaking the eyes contact. "Do you like having a lover's fingers in you?"

Before Geralt can stop himself, he imagines Jaskier's fingers inside him, long and thin and absolutely perfect, calloused from years upon years of performing. He imagines the way Jaskier would move them inside, slow and deep, playing with him, edging him into desperation, brushing over just the right spot inside every single time. 

Geralt can feel his cock twitch almost painfully under his fingers from that thought and he can't bring himself to say something, chasing after the feeling. Jaskier, however, doesn't need an answer. 

"You want me to stretch myself open for you, hm? Let you watch?"

His voice is low and thick with arousal, absolutely intoxicating and _yes, fuck_ , Geralt wants that.

Sometimes, when Jaskier would find himself company for the night, leaving Geralt alone, the witcher would imagine the picture that Jaskier is about to paint for him: imagine the bard stretching himself open for him, slow and deep, almost shaking with anticipation, making himself moan and shudder, almost coming from his own fingers. Imagine Jaskier on top of him, short but sharp nails scratching the witcher's chest raw as he fucks himself with his fingers before slipping all the way down onto Geralt's cock, riding him hard and fast. 

Whenever Geralt would think about it, it'd take him only a few minutes to come. Almost embarrassingly fast, really. 

"Slow," he finally makes himself say as no matter how hot the fire in his lower abdomen burns, there's nothing that he loves more than being edged. "And all the way to your knuckles."

"As you please," Jaskier grins, and gods, if Geralt didn't know any better, he'd think that the bard is about to rip him apart and devour him whole, like an animal.

Jaskier slips off the bed, bending in the most seductive of ways, quickly searches through one of his bags and finds a phial with oil that looks amber in the light of the fireplace. 

"Tell me what you've fantasized about when you thought about my fingers inside you," he says, rubbing the oil that fills the entire room with the scent of chamomile, between his fingers, warming it up. "And did you think just about my fingers? Or maybe you wanted me to stretch you nice and slow before I fuck you, hm?"

Fuck, yes, Geralt wanted those things. 

And a million others that he would never admit to anyone but that kept him up at night as he'd work himself over, desperate and rushed, praying to every god he knows that he won't wake Jaskier up. 

He'd thought about his lips all over him, thought about his tongue following every scar, every curve, about his tongue on his cock and in the crease between his thighs, teasing at the rim until the witcher is absolutely ruined and then pushing inside. 

He'd thought about his hands, so talented and sure, thought about the way it would feel to have Jaskier carefully work out the knots in his muscles and then, having rolled Geralt over onto his back, reach for his cock, whispering all sorts of dirty and praising and comforting things into his ear and working him over until he comes. 

Fuck, even though Geralt usually preferred it rough, sometimes when he'd think about Jaskier taking control over him, he'd crumble and shatter into pieces from the idea of the bard fucking him into completion slowly, teasingly, making all the tension and anger bleed away from his shoulders. 

"I thought about coming back from a hunt," Geralt finally makes himself say and even though he's never been the talkative type, right now making words into sentences seems even harder. "Tired, covered in blood, winded up - the usual."

Jaskier watches him carefully, slowly teasing an oiled finger around his rim, not yet pushing inside but already biting his lips. 

It's a sight impossible to look away from. 

"I thought about you with your soaps and oils and bath salts, the way you'd make all that tension lift and then fade away completely with your hands and your words," the witcher goes on, opting for the fantasy that he desires the most right now. "And then, after you're done with my hair and my shoulders and everything else, you'd take me back to the bedroom, lay me down onto my stomach, climb right on top, keeping your body so close that you'd be able to feel my heat but still not touching."

"Mmm, who would've thought," Jaskier murmurs teasingly, throwing his legs further apart and slowly pushing one of his fingers in, just up to the first knuckle. "Such a fearsome Witcher... and all he wants is a little tenderness."

The bard reaches over for one of the pillows, tucks it under the small of his back, lifting his hips higher so that it's easier to move, torturously-slowly slides his finger in and out, making all kinds of little noises, cheeks flush with colour. 

He looks absolutely unbelievable, laid out on his back like that, deep-blue eyes transfixed on the witcher, hair messy and falling into his face. 

Geralt bites his tongue hard, thinking that if he wanted to, he could come from just that, from knowing that this is meant _for him_.

"I thought about your lips and teeth on my neck and my shoulders, your hands all over me, touching however you please," he says, rolling his lips without even meaning to and clenching his fingers tighter about the base of his cock. "About the way you'd wait for me to completely sink into my own pleasure and then push your fingers inside me, making me gasp and lean into it."

For a second, Jaskier's eyes flutter close as he imagines everything that the witcher is telling him, and he moans softly, breathlessly, his other hand clenching onto the rough fabric of the blanket under him. 

Geralt doesn't allow himself to moan even though it's making it nearly impossible to breathe, as he strokes himself slowly, fingers slick and sticky with precome. He wishes he could reach over and have Jaskier lick it off. 

Biting his lips, the bard locks their gazes again, his neck shiny with sweat. 

"Do you want me to add a second finger, Witcher?" he asks. "Do you like the feeling of being stretched, being caught on a lover's fingers? Oh, Geralt, you don't even know how much I love getting fucking with fingers alone, teasing and edging until I come."

Before Geralt can find anything to say to that, heat twisting in his lower abdomen nearly painfully-tight, Jaskier goes on, because he's always been the one to talk in bed. 

"Tell me, my dearest Witcher, have you ever had a lover push his fingers inside you, find just the right spot and press down on it for a couple of seconds, not allowing you to move? Gods, that makes the entire world go dark in front of your eyes." 

Geralt had never had that done to him. But fuck, now he wishes he had. 

"Do that," he says, and he manages not to let his voice shake but only just. "To yourself."

Jaskier's eyes widen slightly but then he just licks his lips and bites the lower one.

"Oh, so that's the way you wanna play?"

His breathing hitches slightly as he pushes a second finger inside himself, and Geralt knows how good the stretch feels when you want it that bad. He knows the way it makes heat rip through your entire body, the way it makes you feel like you could come from just a few moves of your lover's fingers inside. 

Closing his eyes for a second, Geralt does what Jaskier had told him to do - he imagines that everything the bard is doing to himself is being done to him. Imagines the warm oil, imagines the stretch, the feeling of letting your control slip and giving it to someone else. 

He moves his hand faster, unable to help himself, allows himself a choked moan as his thumb brushes over the tip of his cock, so sensitive that it almost hurts. Geralt's mind jumps back to the last time they've been together, just after a hunt a few weeks ago. He thinks back on the way Jaskier kept looking up at him, lips stretched around the witcher's cock, the way he edged him mercilessly, getting him so fucking close every time and then pulling back to lick him clean and do it all over again. 

"Fuck," he bites out, lust and heat taking away any self-control he had left. "I want you."

Jaskier perks up, never stopping the slow movements of his wrist, eyes half-closed and heavy-lidded. "Oh?"

He darts a look down, to Geralt's cock, flush and throbbing and leaking with precome, licks his lips like he's fucking thirsty for it. 

"You want me to get down on my knees for you?"

Geralt can feel the words on the tip of his tongue, can almost taste them as he musters up the courage he needs to get over himself. 

"I want you to fuck me."

For a second - an agonisingly long moment when Geralt feels like he cannot breathe - Jaskier is silent, just studying him, and the witcher already thinks that everything is ruined but Jaskier is not a man that misses his chances. 

"Come here," he says and his voice is soft but it still has that little something to it that would've made Geralt oblige even if he wasn't eager for it already. 

He leaves his place in the armchair, climbs onto the bed, letting Jaskier's gentle hands guide him. 

For a moment, neither of them say or do anything, just looking at each other, but then Jaskier is already kissing him, lips warm and sweet and soft; then the bard's hands are in his hair, playing with the silver strands and pulling on them, making Geralt growl softly right into Jaskier's lips. 

Jaskier pushes him down onto the bed, never breaking the kiss, climbs right on top, rolling his hips against the witcher's and tearing a moan out of both of them. With his entire body, Geralt can feel the hunger radiating off of the bard. 

"Why the sudden change of mind?" Jaskier asks, breathless, as he breaks away, and then, almost immediately: "No, don't answer."

He pulls back slightly to take a look at the witcher, reaches a hand down to trace the sharp of his jaw with the tips of his fingers, taking in the sight in front of him. Geralt allows his hands to travel all over Jaskier's thighs until he finally decides to rest one of them high on the bard's hip and the other one somewhere by his knee, sunken into the rough blanket.

"Would you only look at that," Jaskier murmurs, brushing his thumb over Geralt's jaw and rolling his hips again. "So pretty."

Geralt growls at that but he doesn't have the chance to say anything as Jaskier simply pushes his fingers into his mouth, shutting the witcher up. 

"Hush, you," he says, biting his lip as the witcher runs his tongue over his fingers. "Right now I am in control, not you. And I make the rules."

Fuck it, Geralt thinks, So be it, then. 

And just like that, he gives in. Gives himself over to the bard, ready to do or say anything he's told to, ready to take anything and everything that Jaskier's got to offer because he just wants to - for once in his life - not be the one in control. Wants to let his guard down and not think about anything other than this bed. Wants to be left devoid of any decisions to make because he's simply not the one to choose. 

Right now, all he can do is take what he's given and act as he's told.

And that's exactly what he wants. 

Geralt closes his eyes, letting the control slip, sinking deeper into the pleasant, almost comforting heat that washes over his entire body in waves as Jaskier rolls his hips yet again, his other hand on the witcher's chest so as to keep his balance. 

"This week has been a fucking torment," Jaskier breathes out, leaning down for another raw, hungry kiss without even pulling his hand away from Geralt's mouth. "Watching you get more and more wound up without being able to touch you, to get your mind off it."

He breaks away but only to find his way to Geralt's neck, leaving wet smudged kisses everywhere he can reach, his breathing hot against the witcher's skin. He doesn't seem to be in the mood for biting but that doesn't stop him from sucking a bright-red mark onto Geralt's neck, pulling back right after to take a look at his creation. 

He adores leaving all sorts of marks on the witcher, and Geralt, though unsure as of why, always allows him, walking around with those love-bites for days afterwards, marked and owned. 

"You know just how much it turns me on when you're like this," Jaskier keeps whispering, never stopping the trail of his kisses, hands all over Geralt's chest and abdomen. "All this anger, all this... gods, all this _power_ that you just radiate when you're on edge-"

"They way you say it," Geralt almost finds it in him to chuckle but then another mark on his neck takes the air away from his lungs. "Makes it sound like you like it rough."

For a second, Jaskier lifts his head to look the witcher in the eyes and grin at him.

"Oh, I do," he says, tilting his head as he brushes his fingers over one of Geralt's hardened nipples just to see his reaction. "But I like _being_ treated rough, not treating someone else that way."

Geralt feels like he's melting. 

Like every new touch, every new kiss is taking away whatever self-control he had left until his body is not even his anymore, until everything belongs to Jaskier. 

He loves the contrast. Loves knowing that he's got enough strength in him to easily snap the bard in two with just one arm and yet being completely and utterly in his reign, loves that Jaskier's weight on top of him is absolutely nothing, and yet right now he can bring the witcher down to his knees with no more but a move of his wrist. 

"I'm going to run my hands and lips all over you," Jaskier whispers, his lips back on Geralt's neck again, this time on the other side. "Going to make you relax and lean into my every touch and then I'm going to slowly stretch you open and fuck you until you come all over these sheets, shaking and whispering my name."

He reaches a hand down, runs the tips of his fingers over Geralt's cock, collecting the sticky precome and making the witcher shudder. 

"I'm going to leave marks on you so that wherever we go for the next couple of the days, the people there will know that you're claimed," Jaskier murmurs and, as if to prove his words, sucks another love-bite onto the witcher's neck that blooms blood-red on his pale skin. 

"I'm not yours," Geralt tries weakly, more out of habit than of anything else. 

Jaskier pushes a knee between his legs, making the witcher gasp and lean into it without even meaning to. 

"Are you sure?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, just takes his kisses to the witcher's chest, following the outlines of scars and making Geralt crumble into pieces every time Jaskier switches his lips for his tongue, hands all over the older man's body. They're both completely breathless by now, sensitive and touch-starved, and the way the bard moans when Geralt grabs his hips impatiently, sends his head reeling. 

Jaskier lets go of the witcher's collarbone that he's been sucking love-bites onto, bites into his lips, shamelessly spreading Geralt's knees further apart and settling in-between them as he breaks away, licking a strip down the witcher's neck. His hot wet lips quickly make their way down Geralt's chest and abdomen, tracing every scar, every mark left by teeth or claws or blades, until finally, Jaskier gets to the witcher's thighs and looks up at him, eyes dark and devouring. 

Their gazes lock for just a few seconds before the bard moans softly, breathlessly, nosing at the winter-white hair at the base of Geralt's cock and pressing hard, possessive kisses to the inner side of his thighs. 

"Turn around for me," he says, making an effort over himself to pull back. 

Geralt does just as he's told, pushing himself up with suddenly weak arms and turning to lie on his stomach, a pillow under his hips, keeping his back arched ever so slightly and giving better access. 

"Just like that," Jaskier murmurs into his ear, leaning in close, their bodies almost touching. "So good for me."

Jaskier leans in closer still, rocking his hips slightly, allowing the witcher to feel his hard cock, feel the uneven smears of precome it leaves on his skin. 

"How long has it been since you've last been fucked like this, hm?" 

Jaskier presses a kiss to the back of Geralt's head, to his neck, in-between his shoulder blades, following the lines of his firm muscles with one hand and keeping his balance with the other one. 

"Long enough," Geralt finally makes himself say, shamelessly leaning into the touch as the bard runs his fingers over the crease of his thighs, teasing. 

He can feel his heart beat faster as the room fills with the scent of oil again, can feel the warm, rich scent fill his lungs and stay there, taking away the last bits of his self-control. Jaskier sits back, runs both his hands down Geralt's back, at either side of his spine, relaxing him even further, knowing how to apply just the right pressure. 

It's not unusual for him to work out the knots in the witcher's muscles like that, but right now it's all different, right now they're both hard, impatient and drunk on each other, so Geralt doesn't even think about it, just chokes down a moan when Jaskier digs his fingers into his thighs, the pleasure bordering on pain, sending little sparks up the witcher's spine. 

"Tell me what you want," Jaskier breathes into his ear, seemingly unable to stay away for longer than a minute. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

He drips even more oil onto his hands, warms it between his fingers, teases at Geralt's rim, circling it but not yet pushing in, making the knot in the witcher's lower abdomen tie so tightly that it almost hurts. 

"I want your fingers in me," he makes himself say because he knows that that's the only way to get what he wants. "Two at first, and then the third one."

Jaskier makes some sort of a pleased sound at that, peppering kisses all over the witcher's shoulders and then finally sliding a finger inside him, making Geralt arch his back and moan breathlessly, getting up to his knees without even meaning to. 

Following Geralt's desire, Jaskier adds a second finger almost immediately, sliding them in and out slowly, brushing over just the right spot and making the witcher shudder with pleasure, his back arched and face hidden in a pillow.

The stretch feels incredible, like fire up his spine, and every time he goes a few months without it, he forgets just how fucking good it can feel. 

"If I had more patience in me, I'd work you open with my tongue, Witcher," Jaskier whispers, moving his wrist agonisingly-slow. "I'd tease you until you beg and then - finally - let you feel my fingers inside."

Geralt nearly whimpers, rolling his hips, chasing after the touch and making the bard murmur something affectionate to him, his cock leaking with precome and leaving uneven smears of it on the witcher's thighs. He knows how to make it feel even better than Geralt fantasized. 

"Oh, but this just feels so good, doesn't it?" Jaskier keeps murmuring, not really waiting for an answer, knowing everything he needs from the way Geralt leans into his every touch. 

And then, he does something that makes the world in front of Geralt's eyes go black for a few endless seconds. 

He slides his oiled fingers all the way in, deep into the witcher's body, brushes over just the right spot and then, without any warning, presses down on it, making painfully hot, pure pleasure rip through Geralt's entire body, making him gasp and then moan loudly, trying both to get away from the feeling and chase after it.

It's only a few seconds, how long it last, agonisingly-good but not enough to come, but Geralt could swear that he nearly passes out from just how much it overwhelms him. 

Clearly so very pleased with the reaction he got, Jaskier adds a third finger, slowly stretching the tight muscles and muttering all sorts of praising and affectionate things that make Geralt's skin crawl. His other hand is in the witcher's hair, tugging on the silver strands just hard enough to cause little sparks of pain that make Geralt's head spin even harder than it already is. 

"Never thought you'd be so sensitive, Witcher," Jaskier breathes, his fingers moving easily by now. "I say we play a little game, what do you think?"

At this point, Geralt can do nothing but agree, biting his lips and barely holding himself back from asking to _just get the fuck on with it already_. 

"You wanted me to come only when you'd allow me," the bard says and Geralt already knows where this is going. "Controlled pleasure is just too tempting of an idea to just let it go like that, isn't it?"

Fuck, Geralt thinks, This is going to be the fucking end of me. 

Jaskier leans in close, his breath hot against Geralt's ear as he whispers:

"Will you be good for me, Witcher? Just for tonight?"

Jaskier's fingers brush deep inside him, and Geralt barely suppresses a moan, rolling his hips and taking them in even further, eager to finally get what he wants. 

"I will," he breaks, and at last, that's enough. 

Satisfied, Jaskier pulls his fingers out, silencing Geralt's disheartened moan with a wet kiss to his neck, pulls back to slide both his hands up the witcher's thighs, his touch soft and comforting, align himself and finally push in, slowly but all the way, little shivers running down his body as he moans softly, breathlessly. 

"Gods, Geralt-" he breathes, almost whimpers, giving them both time to adjust. "You feel _incredible_."

The witcher barely hears him behind his own pleasure, behind the feeling of finally being filled up, so nice and deep. He can feel Jaskier's cock pulsing inside him, can smell the precome that, mixed with oil, makes it easy for the bard to move, rocking his hips ever so slightly, teasing them both. He presses a hand to the small of the witcher's back, making him bend even more, knees sliding further apart, so that he can shift, both hands digging into the rough blanket. 

They're so close like this that if Jaskier were to lean down just a little more, he'd be able to brush his lips over Geralt's neck, and it's harder to move like this but neither of them care, caught up in each other's heat, burning in it and not even planning on making it out of this flame alive. 

It's agonising, how good it feels when Jaskier rolls his hips and Geralt leans into it, moving together with the bard, immediately falling into a nearly perfect synth of slow, deep thrusts that make them both shudder with pleasure. It's just what Geralt wanted all this time, just what he'd thought of, getting himself off countless times - the feeling of Jaskier's throbbing cock inside him, each move so slow that he can feel every inch as the bard pushes into him; the feeling of being owned, claimed, marked with his scent and his touch. 

"Faster-" Geralt pleads, grabbing onto the bard's wrist just to give himself some sort of reliance. "Fuck, Jask, please-"

It's impossible to deny him something when he asks in that voice, Jaskier realises, crumpling the blanked beneath his fingers and moving his hips faster, deeper, pulling out almost entirely every time and then pushing all the way in again, choking on his moans and the witcher's name, his back glistening with sweat. Every time he brushes over just the right spot inside, Geralt feels like he can't breathe, waves of pure, red-hot pleasure washing over him, so overwhelming that he feels like he could pass out. 

It's incredible, being completely in Jaskier's control, allowing him to decide whether or not to give Geralt what he wants. 

Geralt completely dissolves in him, like salt in hot water, and he doesn't remember ever feeling this good. 

"Tell me if it hurts," Jaskier whispers, his voice ragged, as he thrusts his hips harder, faster, unable to hold back. 

Even if it did hurt, Geralt wouldn't tell him. Because he's unable to talk anymore, unable to think anymore, and all he can do is move together with the bard and try to silence his moans which is not at all successful. His lower lip is split open where his teeth are digging into it and the heavy, metallic tang of blood on his tongue makes him suffocate completely. 

He's melting, crumbling, falling apart.

His cock is painfully hard by now, precome dripping onto the sheets and leaving uneven smears on the rough fabric, marking the blankets with his scent and gods, Geralt doesn't know how he'll ever fall asleep tonight. How he'll ever be able to sleep from now on, having Jaskier within an arm's reach and knowing what it feels like to have him inside, knowing what it feels like to be _his_. 

It doesn't help at all when Jaskier shifts his weight onto one arm to reach down and wrap his fingers over the base of the witcher's cock, making him moan so desperately that the sound breaks off, edging on a whimper. 

"Not yet, Witcher," Jaskier whispers, running his lips over Geralt's neck. 

It's so much more than Geralt can take but he obliges, nonetheless, clenching his jaw and recalling everything he's ever been taught about controlling his body. His head is reeling, lungs burning from the lack of air, but he still plays by Jaskier's rules, allowing the bard to torment him mercilessly, stroking his cock slowly in contrast to the fast, deep, hard thrusts of his hips. 

"That's it," Jaskier praises, his voice breaking off into a low moan. "You're doing so good."

His voice is intoxicating, crawling underneath Geralt's skin like alcohol does, making his entire body weak in the sweetest of ways. Geralt can feel his thighs shake, can feel the coordination of his movements get distorted, making it impossible to keep the right rhythm, but it just doesn't matter anymore, because all he can do right now is clench his fingers on Jaskier's wrist so hard that there will be bruises in the morning and try everything he can not to come before he's allowed to. 

Jaskier edges him. 

Edges him with the precision of a professional, even though he can barely take it himself, his moans growing louder and higher with every thrust of his hips. He brushes his thumb over the tip of Geralt's cock, collecting the precome, clenches his fingers a little harder, moving his hand over Geralt's entire length a few more times, waiting for the witcher to break, to ask for it. 

And, gods, Jaskier always gets what he wants. 

"Please-" Geralt chokes out, stepping over his pride because none of that matters anymore. "Please, Jask-"

Jaskier nearly loses his mind from that referring, moves his hand faster, harder, making Geralt's pleasure sharpen, grow hotter, threatening to spill over the edge and devour him whole.

"What do you want?" he asks and fuck, Geralt would've hated him if only he didn't adore him so much. 

He's almost there, almost fucking there, his entire body trembling with pleasure, and if it wasn't for his irrational desire to follow the rules, he would've spilt all over the sheets by now. 

"Please just let me come," he breathes, barely recognising his own voice and finally, that's enough. 

Jaskier presses a hard kiss in-between his shoulder blades, takes his hand away because they both know that that's not what Geralt wants, props himself up properly and moves his hips even faster, filling the entire room with the wet, dirty sound of skin on skin. There's no rhythm to his thrusts anymore, just fast, deep, hard moves of his hips and the scent of his pleasure, rich and spicy, like cloves or cinnamon. 

And just when Geralt thinks that he's not going to make it, that he's going to break the rules, Jaskier leans down to his very ear and whispers, hot and low:

"Come for me, Witcher."

And immediately, Geralt is pushed over the edge. His pleasure washes over him in a crashing wave of a slowly-building orgasm, and he comes all over the sheets with a broken, breathless moan, so hard that the world in front of his eyes blacks out completely for a few endless seconds. 

Jaskier only needs a few more thrusts to grip the blanket beneath his fingers so hard that his knuckles go white, and come, as well, spilling deep into the witcher's trembling body, his moan loud enough for everyone in the inn to hear. 

For some time that neither of them care to comprehend, they stay like that, just breathing and shaking ever so slightly from the last echoes of orgasm, until finally, Jaskier finds it in him to pull away from the witcher and lay down next to him, completely exhausted and barely able to keep his eyes open. 

Geralt's knees refuse to hold him any longer, and he collapses heavily onto his stomach, not even pulling the dirty sheets from beneath him because he just couldn't care less. He feels incredible. With all the tension, anger, exhaustion completely fucked out of him, he feels better than he'd felt in months. 

Jaskier watches him from his place, reaches out a hand to brush away the silver strands from the witcher's face. 

"We should do this more often," he says and it sounds more like a question than a statement. 

Blinking his eyes open, Geralt catches the bard's wrist to pull it to his lips, leave a kiss on the gentle skin and let it rest there. 

"Yeah," he says, already knowing how they're going to spend tomorrow's afternoon. "We should do this more often."

**Author's Note:**

> I might have been a little drunk while writing a part of this so if Geralt's a little _too_ compliant, it's because I couldn't help myself


End file.
